


Capture Me

by KarenR2



Category: South Park
Genre: Artistic Craig, Fluff, Jealousy, M/M, Onesided Style, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, cryle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 09:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8280316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarenR2/pseuds/KarenR2
Summary: It always startled him to know that, behind the stoic exterior and bland personality, there was a quiet, artistic soul that expressed itself through detailed pencil strokes and a steady hand. You never really knew someone had a heart until you were close enough to feel their heartbeat. Cryle.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It took me three days to finish this thing omg. But yes, here you go--Cryle has a very special place in my heart ;w;; <3

 

_Art speaks when words fail to explain._

_-_ Mathiole / Threadless Artist

* * *

 

Kyle Broflovski was of the belief that knowledge could never be harmful and that the ‘ignorance is bliss’ bullshit was for delusional pussies. Kyle used to look down upon them; he was a realist, someone who could look at things at face value and no matter how he felt about it, would be able to tuck it away in his mental bank and move on with his life. Knowledge was power and being ignorant could never be helpful.

But then he realised that he was gay for his best friend, and that was a very, very bitter pill to swallow. He wished he never discovered that part of himself, wish it’d stayed in the dark. Ignorance really was fucking bliss after all.

In retrospect, perhaps he _had_ tried to remain ignorant for a while despite himself. However, it was hard to remain in that preferred state when he had a particular vivid dream that involved said best friend and parts of their bodies that had no business being in an innocent dream, and then waking up with a raging boner that he nearly started sobbing over. He wished he could’ve forgotten the dream as soon as his eyes shot open—any other fucking time that was the case—but the images were still fresh in his mind, his skin still hot from where he remembered ghost fingers had traced. He also wished that he could say (not that he’d ever confess it out loud to _anyone_ ) that, immediately upon discovering his leaking boner, he went straight into the bathroom to have a cold shower, stoutly denying his body the contact it craved. But he couldn’t say that, for it would be a lie, a delusion. As soon as he woke up and discovered his problem, he’d shoved his hand down his suddenly tight boxers and finished himself off, teeth clamped tight over his pillow and eyes squeezed shut as if he could remain blind to this depravity—and to better imagine Stan’s hands over his, his cock ploughing into him, the filthy, disgusting things he growled into his ear. Everything seemed more real in the dark.

Needless to say, after a mind-blowing orgasm that Kyle had never felt so intensely before, he was instantly filled with a kind of regret and deep, remorseful shame that in his mind, he might as well have just raped himself—or raped Stan. As he cleaned himself up with tissues, there were bitter tears in his eyes that he allowed to shed because he was alone, thick and hateful. After he angrily tossed the dirty tissues into his bin, he instantly slammed his face into his pillow and screamed, curling his body into itself as he tried to make himself small for the judging eyes that he imagined had watched him commit the sin.

He felt like he’d just violated himself and Stan at once; how the fuck was he supposed to look his best friend in the eye now?

As it was, it turned out that he simply _couldn’t_. He kept up pretences enough that the sometimes-dense noirette wouldn’t be pushed into action to interrogate him, but for the most part Kyle avoided him. It made him miserable, made him quiet—for a period, the fiery redhead of the school was subdued enough that a few people actually cast him curious glances. Kyle was frustrated with them all—he was _trying_ to make himself small and unnoticeable so that they _wouldn’t_ fucking look at him and somehow, impossibly, know what he’d done. He walked around feeling like he had the label ‘FAGGOT’ stamped across his forehead in giant, neon letters and they only needed to look close enough to know the truth.

It was the fourth day now since the revelation—could Kyle really call it a revelation? It had been building up for _months_ , maybe _years_ , ever since his body underwent hormonal changes and he found himself looking at Stan, and other boys, in ways that vaguely reminded him of how Kenny described he looked at girls. He’d been able to justify himself before by thinking that _everyone_ was a little gay—there was no harm in acknowledging another boy’s handsomeness—but it all came to an ugly head when observation turned into actual masturbation material. In true Kyle-like fashion, he’d thought about this a fucking lot and he could aptly pinpoint the moment when he found himself actually _attracted_ to Stan: when he and Stan had a rare sleepover and Kyle had woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of Stan moaning. Instead of being completely disgusted (he had been a _little_ repulsed, granted, because this was his _best friend_ having a fucking wet dream), instead he’d been transfixed with the sounds he made, unable to not listen even if he tried to as he laid there stiffly on checkered sheets. He’d developed a semi just by the sound alone, but he’d willed it away and ignored it because that was an ordinary reaction from a healthy, hot-blooded boy to _anything_ sexual. If anything, he was just paranoid that Stan would wake up and somehow discover that he’d been listening, and what an awkward conversation _that_ would have been.

Half of him wished that Stan _had_ woken up, discovered his freakish behaviour, and promptly punched him in the face. Maybe then his dreams would have a different subject matter to focus on.

Kyle sighed softly to himself, listening to the teacher drone on and on about—what the fuck class was this again? Ah, yes, Modern History—the driest of all his classes. He allowed his mind to slip away into his own thoughts, which was in hindsight a bad idea because his thoughts, while unarguably more entertaining than the fashion of the ‘90s, were focused perpetually around his most recent problem.

So deep was he in his own pit of angst that he didn’t notice the tiny paper balls hitting the back of his head until one of them managed to nick his ear. Startled, he turned around and narrowed his eyes at the noirette sitting behind him. “ _What_?” he asked bluntly, in no mood for bullshit.

Their history teacher was an old crone who was half blind and two-thirds deaf; most of the class were already engaged in their own whispered conversations that went unnoticed by her. That kind of thing usually irritated Kyle to the extreme but he’d learned to simply accept it in history—it wasn’t like this was a terribly worthwhile subject to begin with. Craig Tucker sat adjacent behind him and usually, the guy didn’t bother Kyle, so this was strange enough to distract the brooding redhead.

Craig looked at him with that blank, stoic expression he always wore, but there was a flicker of emotion in his dark grey eyes that Kyle barely caught. He couldn’t read what it was in any case. “You look fucking miserable,” he said simply, voice guttural rather than nasally as it once was. Kyle blamed the cigarettes.

The redhead glared at him and rolled his eyes, giving him the middle finger beneath his desk. He turned back to face the front but not before catching Craig return the gesture from his peripheral vision. He tried to actually pay attention to the monotone voice of their history teacher but was distracted once again by another paper ball hitting the back of his head. He turned slowly, warning in a hiss, “ _Fuck off, Tucker._ ”

A brief flash of emotion again, one that puzzled Kyle because he couldn’t quite identify what it was. Craig shrugged, his expression not giving anything more away. Kyle narrowed his eyes in suspicion and stiffly turned to face the front once more, the grip on his pencil tighter than it should be. When a paper ball flew through the air and hit the side of his cheek, it took all of his existing self-control not to flip his table over and beat the crap out of the other in front of all their classmates.

Instead, he sharply turned and bodily leaned over towards Craig, a fire in his green eyes that had been missing since the weekend. “You fucking stop that right fucking now, or so help me I’m going to bash your fucking teeth in and I _won’t_ fucking regret it,” he snarled, dead serious, teeth bared like an animal. He did _not_ need Craig’s pestering on top of everything else. “I don’t fucking care if you’re bored out of your goddamn mind but **leave me out of it** or I will make you fucking _sorry_. One more paper ball, Craig— _fucking try me._ ”

There it was again, a brief flicker of dark grey eyes accompanied by a nearly non-existent quirk of his lips. It was the exact opposite of what Kyle wanted to achieve and he was momentarily floored to realise that it looked like… smugness? Satisfaction? It caused him to stiffen and, strangely enough, blush—but Kyle explained that away to indignation rather than anything else. “Okay,” Craig responded, his hands idle on the table and his shoulders giving a minute shrug. He looked bored suddenly, even though he didn’t move his eyes away from Kyle’s face.

That was always the thing with Craig, Kyle noticed—his almost unblinking, oddly intense stare. Whenever he saw the noirette, he’d always be staring at _something_ —and more often than not, that something was _him_. It never failed to twist Kyle’s gut in an odd sense of flattery and confusion, making him self-conscious and at the same time, excited. Which was idiotic. Why would Kyle _like_ being stared at by _Craig_ of all people? Most of the times, it was just plain creepy, although Kyle would be lying if he said that it was a completely _bad_ feeling. It was unnerving, yes, but it was also curious. Craig was a dangerous curiosity.

The redhead made a quiet grunt and finally tore his gaze away from the other’s, his cheeks tinging pink slightly upon realising that he’d been staring back. He resolutely kept his head forward and his eyes trained on the plump teacher, and not a single paper ball was thrown at him for the rest of the class.

* * *

Craig Tucker was in detention again.

No one was surprised, just as how no one was surprised when the sun rose in the east. Granted, he’d been going to detention less as they got older from elementary school, but that wasn’t really saying much. He still had a blatant disrespect for authority and was notorious in the school for giving zero fucks about nearly anything. Although he sported a rather decent face and he had this air of ‘coolness’ about him, people stayed well clear of him, too scared and wary about his existence in general to approach him. There was just something about him that rubbed people the wrong way; perhaps it was his stoic stare or how he could never hold a decent conversation or the fact that they never saw him smile. He was too quiet, his expression too blank, and he had no grace or tact in any social situation. If Craig weren’t so tall, handsome, and intimidating, with the occasional show of a violent temper that further cemented his ‘bad boy’ status, he would have faded into high school obscurity long ago.

That afternoon, he was serving time for his week’s sentence of detention for being caught skipping class to smoke. He and the detention supervisor had developed a begrudging friendship in a way (mutual souls stuck in a place they’d rather _not_ be) and he was left to his own devices. He had his sketchbook out, granite scratching softly against the surface of thick paper. His eyes were trained so intensely on the subject he was drawing that no one dared to question him. Just as well, because if any of the other detention-goers were close enough to see what it was he was doing, Craig wouldn’t have been doing it at all.

He barely noticed the door to the room being opened and didn’t care about it until the supervisor barked out, “Broflovski! You’re late!”

Immediately, Craig’s head snapped up and his eyes confirmed the statement. There was Kyle, looking out-of-breath and angry, although he tried to reign in his irritation in front of the supervisor. “Sorry, sir,” the redhead said and despite his efforts, his voice came out slightly exasperated. “I was held up.”

The supervisor rolled his eyes and waved his hand, muttering, “Just go sit down, boy,” as he marked something down on his sheet of paper. Then he reclined further into his chair, ready to snooze.

Kyle’s sharp green eyes scanned the room with weary acceptance and when they spotted him, Craig hastily put away his sketchbook and shoved it deep into his bag. Kyle quirked an eyebrow at that and his gaze flickered once more around the room, looking torn. Then he gave a long-suffering sigh and walked towards the only person he knew among this rabble of troublemakers. Craig watched his every move like a hawk would to its prey.

“Hey,” the redhead said simply, planting his ass on the seat next to him. He didn’t seem to be too annoyed with him anymore for his antics during history—if he had been, Craig knew he would’ve gone to sit somewhere else.

“Hey,” Craig returned. “What the hell are you here for?” Kyle hardly ever got detention. He tried to avoid it like the plague, something about his mother killing him if she ever found out.

Whatever the reason, the redhead still seemed to be touchy about it. Craig watched him closely as Kyle clenched his teeth together and fisted his hands on top of the table. “What,” he began, tone already dangerous, “you didn’t hear about it?”

“Hear about what?”

“I would’ve thought you would. Clyde was there and he’s a fucking loudmouth.”

Craig was quickly becoming bored of Kyle’s indirectness. He just stared at him blankly until the other got the message and rolled his eyes. “Got into a fight with Cartman,” he answered with a grunt.

Because that was _so_ surprising.

Kyle must have sensed his immediate thought because he went on to say, “The fatass fucking deserved it this time! Like, _really_! He was asking for it!”

That didn’t shine any light on the matter at all. “He’s always asking for it,” Craig deadpanned. “What did he do?”

The reaction was an interesting one. Kyle coloured, his face flushing red—Craig didn’t know whether it was due to embarrassment or rage. Maybe both. Dark grey eyes took note of how prettily the flush contrasted with his pale skin and made his usually light, miniscule freckles stand out. Not that he wasn’t already aware of that phenomenon though. “Just being a giant bigoted asshole like always. Had enough of it,” Kyle replied in a mumble, glancing away, his shoulder jerking in an unconvincing shrug.

Craig was unimpressed. “Is that really all?”

“Yes,” Kyle snapped, glaring at him again. “I wasn’t in the mood and so I punched him to shut him up, okay? Why the fuck am I explaining this to you anyway?”

Craig ignored the question in favour of one of his own. “Does it have anything to do with how you’ve been sulking lately?”

Immediately, the redhead tensed. He looked at Craig with wary green eyes. “What?”

“It’s not like you’re being subtle about it,” he said; his voice, in contrast to Kyle’s, remained its same flat tone. “You’ve been quiet and avoiding Marsh.” Usually, Craig would get an eyeful every lunch break of Kyle and Stan chatting to one another in the cafeteria. That hadn’t been the case since the school week started, the redhead oddly missing from their table. Usually, Craig would pin that on the redhead disappearing into the library to study, but he knew for a fact that there weren’t any tests coming up any time soon.

There was that blush again in the other’s cheeks, but his eyes had been narrowed into dangerous slits as well. “What the fuck are you on about, Tucker?” Kyle hissed. “Have you been watching me?”

“It’s hard not to notice when Marsh has been a whiny bitch about it during lunch,” was Craig’s immediate response, no heat in his voice, just a perpetual plainness. It wasn’t a lie, in any case, although Stan might have commented on Kyle’s absence only once or twice. “So what’s up, Broflovski?”

Kyle seemed to search him for a moment, appraising him for any hint of an ulterior motive. Craig just quirked an eyebrow at him silently; he honestly didn’t know what the big deal was. If it was something involved with _Cartman_ then wasn’t it just any other school day? Finally, Kyle released a breath through his nose and planted his elbow on the table, resting his chin on an open palm. He looked irritably away, focusing on the clock that ticked lazily on the wall. “It’s… It’s nothing, Craig,” he muttered. “Forget it.”

And that seemed to be the end of that conversation. Whatever it was that was bothering Kyle, he obviously didn’t want to share it in detention of all places, or maybe he just didn’t want to confide in Craig? The noirette watched him curiously and remained silent, even when the Jew sighed again and began taking out his notebooks, probably planning to do some homework while he was there. Craig could have followed his lead but he didn’t feel like doing homework at the moment; as he watched the redhead switch to work-mode and tackle his maths problems with a laser-like focus, Craig’s fingers twitched for his pencil instead. He leaned forward and pillowed his head on crossed arms on his desk, face turned so he could languidly watch the redhead.

Eventually however, Kyle _did_ begin to notice his blatant staring and he looked up from his textbook, already pissed off. “Fucking _what_ , Craig?” he snapped quietly. “Is there something on my face?”

“No,” the other said lazily. “Do you know you bite your lip when you get stuck on a question?”

The way Kyle’s face coloured about thirty different shades of red was absolutely _fascinating_. He covered up his mouth automatically, green eyes narrowing above his hand. “That’s a fucking weird observation to make,” he grumbled and, noticing what he was doing, lowered his hand in embarrassment.

“I’m not the one doing the weird thing that’s being observed,” Craig countered blandly.

“Can you just—not stare at me then?” Kyle asked, feeling flustered. “It’s—well, it’s _weird_ , dude. I kind of just want to punch you.”

The brutal honesty made Craig want to laugh. He didn’t. “Question,” he started, changing the subject entirely. “If you got into a fight with Cartman, then why isn’t he here as well?”

Kyle looked at him strangely, as if he was surprised that Craig was actually attempting a conversation with him. But at least this seemed vaguely normal and Kyle lost the blush on his cheeks, snorting and looking back at his exercise book. “He got out of it because he managed to bullshit an excuse about a dentist appointment,” he muttered. “Although he probably just didn’t want to see me again so soon in case I actually broke his nose this time,” he mused, a dark smile on his face.

Craig discretely memorised that look and nodded, turning his head away and burying his face into his arms without further comment. He listened to the methodical scratching of a pencil beside him as Kyle went back to his work; he sorely wished he could draw right now, but it was enough to just know that Kyle was beside him, frowning that cute little frown and gnawing on his bottom lip as he went through questions three chapters ahead of the rest of the class. Craig wouldn’t really know but he might have ended up snoozing for a little bit to the sound of Kyle’s quiet mutterings of numbers and tangents.

* * *

Later on, Craig found out from Clyde that Cartman had called Kyle a fag, which resulted in the redhead absolutely losing his shit and beating him up in the middle of the school hallway. Apparently, Cartman had been too shocked by the reaction to really put up much of a fight back before the redhead was torn off of him by furious teachers.

That was certainly an interesting piece of gossip. Craig mulled it over in his head a couple of times, wondering the implications that half the school were already whispering about, and when Cartman came the next day to serve out his day of detention, Craig glared coolly and flipped him off.

* * *

Kyle was in the library trying to find a specific book when he heard something rather sickening behind one of the shelves. His face automatically twisted into a sneer of disgust when he recognised exactly what the lip-smacking and sucking noises were and he rounded the corner to tell them both to shut the fuck up and get a room; but his complaints fell short of actually being verbalised when he saw who the offending couple actually was. He froze on the spot, the fire in his body immediately doused as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped on him. He wasn’t still for long though and he quickly turned and bolted out of there, his heart simultaneously galloping and breaking in his ribcage, hoping—and knowing—they hadn’t noticed him.

He needed air.

When he burst through the back doors of the library, it was just his luck that he ran into Craig Tucker’s smoke break. It had snowed late that night and the air was crisp and cold. For a moment, Kyle wondered how Craig could stand smoking out here.

In any case, he’d made quite a show when he slammed the door open hard enough for it to recoil and slam back closed, and Craig’s eyes were instantly on him. “What the fuck are you doing, Broflovski?” he asked and despite the question, he sounded completely disinterested already.

But maybe the calm nuance of Craig’s throaty voice was what Kyle needed right now—he was too flustered and feeling too much, and Craig’s coolness was like a balm on his nerves. “Can’t I come out for some air?” he retorted, focusing all of his attentions on the noirette in front of him, distracting his mind from the recent images that had burned themselves into his retinas. “And fucking hell, really, Craig? Smoking at lunch now?”

Craig took a long, slow drag from his cigarette, blowing out the smoke into the cold air as he leaned against the building wall. “Better than during classes, apparently,” he answered, bored. His gaze flicked over to the redhead. “I ask again: what the fuck are you doing?”

Kyle could leave Craig right now and not answer him. He was very well aware that he could just march right back inside and find another place to sulk. He didn’t need to be here. He stayed, walked over, and mimicked the other’s posture, leaning heavily against the wall.

“Stan and Wendy were making out in the library,” he answered, unable to keep it in, finding some strange, inexplicit need to voice out his horrors so that they wouldn’t be so painful. It didn’t work. “What the hell do they think they’re doing? It’s the fucking _library_. No one wants to see that shit.” He felt bad for badmouthing his super best friend but he felt rather violated. Stan would have _known_ he was at the library—where else would he be? It felt like a violation of both the sanctity of the library space and also Kyle’s trust. Not that Stan actually _knew_ the reason for Kyle’s discomfort whenever he and his girlfriend engaged in some PDA (how could he? Even _Kyle_ hadn’t known the real reason himself—they’d both just pegged it as the usual grossness associated with friends witnessing friends doing anything remotely sexual), but still. Usually he had more tact than to make out with Wendy when he was in the vicinity.

“So you came out here running like a pussy,” Craig said simply, looking nonchalant but actually watching the redhead from the corner of his eye.

Kyle glared. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Am I wrong? If it had been any other two people, you would have ripped their heads off. But it was _those_ two. Haven’t you seen them make out before?”

“No!” Kyle snapped. “I’m not some voyeur!”

Craig shrugged lazily. “I’d have humiliated them,” he stated bluntly. “Told them to fuck off. Why didn’t you?”

“Because Stan is my best friend, for one, and I care about his feelings?”

“He doesn’t seem to care about yours.”

The careless words were like an arrow through his chest. Despite the temperature outside, Kyle felt hot. He wished his glare would actually manifest itself into daggers and butcher the noirette before his very eyes. He didn’t know _anything_ and he had the balls to say that? It hit too close to home. “Fuck you,” Kyle spat, resentment clear in his tone. But he didn’t leave in a righteous rage; his boots were planted firmly on the snowy floor.

Craig blew out another puff of smoke. Then he asked, “Are you gay?”

Kyle choked on his own spit.

“ _Excuse me_?”

Craig’s dark eyes glanced at him, unreadable. “Are. You. Gay.” He emphasised each word as if Kyle was an idiot.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Craig,” Kyle cursed, running his hand shakily through the red curls beneath his hat. His face was alternating between tomato-red and sickly pale, green eyes unblinking as he stared at the noirette. The shock of the question seemed to snuff out his previous bitterness and his jaw locked tight, his other hand clenching into a fist. For a long, tense moment he didn’t know what to say—the silence only seemed to confirm Craig’s words and Kyle _hated_ that. True to form, when he was at an absolute loss for what to do, he fell back on reliable anger. “Dude, where the fuck did you spring that question from?”

“Found out what the fight between you and Cartman was about,” Craig replied with a shrug. “And now you’re here throwing a bitch fit because you saw Marsh making out with his _girlfriend._ ” He rolled his eyes slightly. “Most guys don’t care enough to run away when they see that shit.”

“That’s a real fucking leap to conclusions just from that,” Kyle rebuked hotly, his mind already going into a panic. He knew he could say something else too, something clever to defuse the other’s suspicions, but he hesitated for a bit too long and Craig was already speaking again.

“Am I wrong?” Craig challenged, throwing the butt of his cigarette into the snow beneath them. He needlessly stomped it out with the heel of his boot. He turned to more fully face the flustered redhead.

“Yes, you’re fucking wrong!” Kyle seethed, moving away from the wall to turn his body fully towards him as well, ready for a fight. “I’m not fucking gay!”

Craig watched him with that intense expression. It made his heart pound. “Then why are you out here, Broflovski?” he asked, his words simple and clear in the heavy air between them.

_Why are you hurt?_

Kyle gritted his teeth. “Fuck you,” he said again, and this time he spun on his heel and left him, slamming the door in his wake.

Craig watched him leave unblinkingly and then leaned back against the wall, taking out another cigarette from his pockets and sticking it in his mouth. He lit it up.

* * *

It wasn’t that Kyle hated Craig. In fact, he actually liked the guy on rare occasions, although only when he wasn’t being an asshole and his views lined up with Kyle’s own agenda.

What he hated about him was how he couldn’t ever get a read on him. He hated how he might have better luck trying to squeeze juice out of a sultana than actually coaxing a proper conversation out of the guy. He was blunt, bland even—had the personality of an unused wash cloth, the blue, disposable kind. He was quiet and rarely stood up for anything, so indifferent to the world that it quietly irritated on Kyle’s own passionate personality. Cartman got under his skin by being loud and bigoted and fucking, down-right _offensive_ ; Craig, on the other hand, managed to get under his skin by doing nothing more than, well, _nothing_. He was a blank space to Kyle, an enigma that was shallow and boring, and how the fuck did that make any sense in the first place? If he was so obvious, then why the fuck couldn’t Kyle read his eyes? That was how much Craig Tucker baffled him.

And he hated it when Craig looked at him. It did weird things to his body, made his breath hitch and his heart to skip, because for someone who was supposedly so plain, his eyes could be so fucking _intense_. It hinted at something that Kyle wasn’t so sure even existed. Did he even want to know? Everyone knew that Craig was weird—but Kyle was slowly beginning to wonder if there was anything more beneath the surface. What made Craig Tucker tick?

Even thinking about it must have been a curse, because within the next week he and Craig were paired up to do an assignment together for AP English. Kyle had been studiously avoiding Craig since their confrontation in the back of the library, which wasn’t hard because they hardly ever interacted together anyway. But still. Now his efforts were for moot and he sighed angrily to himself as he waited for Craig in the library after school, drumming his pen anxiously on his notebook.

He was nervous, nearly terrified. If it were up to him, he would never have spoken to Craig again.

After a minute, the noirette plaguing his thoughts sauntered in, looking as nonplussed and as casual as ever. Kyle couldn’t help but tense at the sight of him, nervously biting his bottom lip. Those dark grey eyes searched the library but quickly found him, since they were basically the only two people in the immediate vicinity. Craig stalked towards him and Kyle had to mentally tell himself to calm the fuck down. Craig wouldn’t bring up _that topic_ again. He hadn’t said a word about it and he wasn’t the type to keep pushing.

“Hey,” the other greeted, setting his bag down next to Kyle.

“Hey,” Kyle muttered, avoiding his eyes.

Craig sat down and without preamble, he began to take books out of his bag and said, “So. Macbeth.”

After that, they actually worked quite well together. Kyle soon relaxed when he realised that Craig had no interest in talking about anything other than their assignment, and with that reassurance he was able to focus his attentions on the actual work at hand. He was surprised when Craig was already quite knowledgeable on Shakespeare, as if he’d actually done the readings or something. Kyle immediately thought it was cruel of him to think that way—Craig was in AP English same as him, after all. He wasn’t dumb.

They were in the middle of looking up Shakespearean adaptations when Craig abruptly stood up. “Bathroom,” he said blandly and didn’t even wait for Kyle’s nod before he started walking off.

Kyle shook his head at Craig’s exit and scoffed; typical. He used the alone time to look through his exercise book and then, glancing over to Craig’s side of the desk, he pulled the other’s notebook towards him as well. He planned to copy the notes Craig had taken while they were discussing their topic, since Kyle had been too busy running his mouth off to write what he’d actually said. Kyle copied down the dot points, idly observing that Craig’s handwriting reflected him—he could tell that they were short strokes of a pencil, straight and sharp and yet with an almost lazy countenance. He didn’t know why he thought that.

Finished and with Craig not back yet, Kyle idly flipped through the other’s exercise book, bored and wanting something to entertain him. He briefly criticised the sparsity of Craig’s notes until he turned a page and his hand became still.

There was a drawing that took up nearly half of the page—it looked like _him_.

Kyle’s draw almost dropped. Yeah, that was definitely him—it was his ushanka and his stupid curls of hair peeking out of it. It was drawn in a side-view, as if Craig had drawn it from his spot in English class, looking right at him…

Swallowing, Kyle turned the page again and found more pictures similar to that one, seemingly spanning back towards the start of their classes together. The amount of actual note-taking would vary day by day, definitely becoming sparse when there were drawings of _him_ instead. Some were half-completed, others fully detailed with granite etchings, some of them at different angles, and most of them depicting a familiar expression of his, either bored or annoyed or concentrating. It was like Kyle was looking at a still-life pencil gallery of himself. Not all of Craig’s drawings were of him, of course—sometimes he drew other students, or the teacher, or birds or whatever he fancied outside the window. But only the once and very rough and few in between. Kyle shifted in his seat, feeling uneasy, his cheeks stained pink. He didn’t know whether or not he was actually angry, but he knew for sure that he wasn’t _as_ angry as he could have been since he had to admit… the drawings were really, really good.

A suspicion suddenly struck him and he glanced down at Craig’s open backpack. He bent down and stuck his hand in it, determined to see what else Craig was hiding—

“ _The **fuck** are you doing?_ ”

Kyle jumped, pulled his hand back to his chest as if it’d been caught in the proverbial cookie jar. He gazed up at the noirette owlishly, his eyes wide. Craig didn’t look happy. His usually impassive eyes were narrowed into dangerous slits, glaring at him darkly in a way that had Kyle actually frightened for his safety. It had been awhile since he’d seen Craig Tucker actually _mad_. His height did not help matters at all; he towered over the sitting Kyle like a mountain ready to crush him.

“Uh…”

Craig suddenly vaulted forward and Kyle flinched, expecting a hit. But Craig only grabbed his English notebook and tore it away from Kyle, bending down to stuff all of his things into his bag and angrily zipping it up. Without a word to the redhead, Craig slung his backpack onto his shoulder and stormed away, flipping him off as he did. Kyle gaped after him for a total of two and a half seconds before he hurriedly packed his things as well and ran to catch up to the steaming noirette.

“Wait! Craig!”

They were outside and quite a distance away from the library already when Kyle finally caught up to him—damn but Craig’s long legs could take him far. “Fucker, wait up!” Kyle snapped, reaching out and grabbing him by the arm.

Craig instantly ripped himself away and spun around, the look in his eyes borderline murderous. “ _I’m_ the fucker?” he snarled, and Kyle was taken aback by the rare show of explosive emotions. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to touch other people’s things, asshole? I didn’t peg you as a nosy, snooping fucktard.”

Kyle bristled and returned Craig’s venomous stare with one of his own. “You’re the fucking asshole! Why the fuck are you drawing me for? _That’s_ fucking invasive!”

Something changed in Craig then, made his anger cold. “Fuck off,” he said, his voice like ice. He put up his middle finger, turned, and started walking away again.

But Kyle wasn’t going to let this go. He caught up to him, passed him, and then stood in his way as a human roadblock. He put his hands on his hips, looking up at the other with narrowed eyes. “Do you always draw me?” he demanded, his cheeks flushing a little at the question, at the acknowledgement.

Craig stared down at him. Kyle hated how _still_ he was when he was barely able to control _himself_ from shaking. After a beat of silence, he answered, “The fuck does it matter?” He managed to actually sound _bored_. Kyle wanted to punch him.

Instead, he clenched his hands. “It obviously fucking matters if you just tried to run away,” he retorted, having none of this bullshit. He’d been ready to talk about this in a calm and inquisitive manner once Craig came out from the bathroom, but he hadn’t expected the guy actually _bailing_ on him like he did. Something was definitely up. “Who else do you draw?”

Craig shoved his hands into his pockets. “That’s none of your fucking business.”

“Am I the only one?”

A roll of grey eyes. “Don’t fucking flatter yourself, Broflovski.”

“Then what the hell is up with your reaction? Why do you fucking draw _me_ in the first place?” Most of the times, Kyle thought Craig hated him.

At last, Craig glanced away, the first sign of actual discomfort rather than anger or forced nonchalance. He made a small sigh through his nose before turning to look back at Kyle again. “Because you’re interesting,” he murmured and Kyle was even more surprised by the light flush that ghosted his cheeks.

Kyle openly gaped. _The_ Craig Tucker, the Master of Stoic, was— _blushing_?

Somehow, that was even more flattering than the verbal confession and Kyle awkwardly rubbed his cheeks, the skin warm beneath his palm. Then he became aware of a nagging insecurity tugging at the back of his mind, making himself doubt his first assumptions. “Interesting like, how? Am I just weird to look at or…?”

Craig scoffed and shook his head. He flipped him off. “I need a smoke,” he stated bluntly, no room for argument.

Well, that was one way to end a conversation. Kyle narrowed his eyes and, despite the lack of invitation, followed the taller guy to a secluded area behind the school again. If Craig thought he was going to avoid the plethora of questions still bouncing away in his head by repulsing Kyle away with his cancer sticks, then he was severely underestimating his stubbornness. Or maybe he was banking on it? Craig hadn’t told him to fuck off again even when he knew that Kyle was following him, after all.

The scene was familiar as Craig lit up his cigarette, breathing in deeply and releasing smoke into the cold air. It was late afternoon and it was going to be evening soon, the chilliness making that all too apparent if the slightly darkened sky didn’t. Kyle stood off to the side, watching Craig with disapproval and pursing lips but otherwise making no comment on the bad habit. Instead, when the silence stretched on with the noirette having no intention of breaking it, Kyle finally asked in exasperation, “ _So_?”

Craig glanced at him briefly. “So what?”

He really did know how to get on his nerves by doing the absolute bare minimum. “ _Craig_ ,” Kyle ground out; if you listened closely, you might be able to hear his teeth grating together.

A flicker of amusement, gone in a second. “Kyle,” he returned coolly, his face giving nothing away.

It was one of the rare times Craig actually said his name and Kyle flushed; he hated how his guts twisted at the sound of it rolling off so smoothly on his tongue. He resisted the urge to stomp his feet like a child throwing a tantrum. “Are you going to explain all the drawings of me?” he demanded, keeping stubborn eye contact.

“You make it sound like a big deal.”

“It _is_ a big deal!” Kyle spat, frustrated.

“Why?”

“What—”

“Why is it such a big deal to you?”

Craig’s eyes were looking at him in that intense, quiet way again, like he could read him, and Kyle nervously adjusted the strap of his shoulder bag. “It—It just _is_ ,” Kyle stressed, unable to understand why he had to explain any of this at all. “I mean, anyone would freak out if they found out someone was drawing them constantly in their books, right? It’s like you’re fucking in love with me or something!”

Craig stilled. Kyle stiffened.

He hadn’t meant to say that.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot, Broflovski,” Craig answered, deadpan. “Like I said: you’re not the only one I draw.”

“Then who else?”

“My friends. Random fucking strangers. Whatever catches my eye.” The answers were short, slightly impatient; Craig already seemed fed up with this circular conversation.

There was a pause between the two of them where Kyle didn’t know what to say next, how far to push things. Then he settled on quietly saying, “I didn’t know you drew.”

Craig looked away and inhaled. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

It wasn’t an accusation. Just a simple fact.

“They were, um, really good,” Kyle muttered, also looking away. “I didn’t know you could draw so well.”

Craig shrugged, seemingly uncaring. Kyle was beginning to wonder if that was actually the truth. He stared at the other as if he’d just gained another level of complexity and it was Kyle’s mission to decipher him, work him out, solve the puzzle. Before he could stop himself, he asked bluntly, “Are _you_ gay?”

Maybe Craig was rubbing off on him.

The noirette’s expression was blank and Kyle’s heart thudded noticeably when those dark eyes settled on him again. A beat, and then: “That’s a fucking jump to conclusions.” The words were familiar.  “You think I’m queer just because I like to draw?”

Kyle didn’t know whether he was angry or not; he didn’t know if he was offended or whether he was joking with him. He couldn’t read him. Craig was a wall to him, no visible cracks to notice and exploit, to hint at what he really thought. Or maybe Kyle just wasn’t aware of the signs to look for.

“No, I…” Kyle’s throat was dry. Why had he even asked that ridiculous question? Why would he even expect Craig to answer him honestly, to take him seriously? He was a hypocrite.

“You think you’ve got me all figured out just because you saw a couple of pictures of yourself in my notebooks?” Craig asked and at last, Kyle recognised the heat in his voice. “Get your head out of the _fucking_ clouds, Broflovski. You think everyone worships the ground you walk on but that’s not the fucking case. You really think I’m gay for you?”

Kyle’s face coloured and his muscles tensed; he felt a sharp feeling in his gut that felt a whole lot like pain. “I don’t fucking think that, asshole,” he retaliated, surprised by how hurt he was. He didn’t care what fucking _Tucker_ thought… right? “I’m sorry I fucking asked. Just—Just don’t ever fucking draw me again.”

He turned on his heel, ready to just get the fuck out of there and not have to discuss this topic ever, ever again. He told himself he didn’t fucking care and Craig could go screw himself.

“Wait.”

His body stilled, and he cursed it. He turned and glanced at Craig, green eyes wary and simmering with anger.

Craig threw his cigarette to the ground and ran his hand through his dark hair. He seemed almost conflicted with himself before he locked eyes with Kyle and said lowly, “What if I am?”

_If you’re gay or if you’re in love with me?_

Kyle swallowed and glared. “What?”

Craig approached the other slowly. “What if I’m gay?” he asked, something dark and dangerous in his eyes. “Would that be a problem?”

Kyle watched him, forced himself to keep his ground. “Why would that be a problem?” he challenged.

“You wouldn’t be grossed out?”

“No.”

“Would you care?”

“N-No.”

“Not even a little bit?”

Craig was in his personal space now. Kyle had to bend his neck backwards to keep eye contact. The nonverbal challenge and his attempt to intimidate him caused Kyle to narrow his eyes defiantly. “Do you want me to care?” he countered, refusing to be pushed around, not even by Craig Tucker.

He could smell the tobacco on the other’s breath. “… What if I did?”

Kyle didn’t know how to respond to that. Not only was Craig being unlike himself, but Kyle didn’t know what he’d do if he actually _did_. His ears were ringing and he was becoming very, very aware of the other’s proximity. He could literally feel the heat radiating from the other boy and he was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. He blamed the cold temperature for that, although he really wasn’t fooling himself.

Then Craig spoke again after he finished searching Kyle’s face. The redhead wondered what he’d found. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Broflovski,” he said, an intensity in his eyes that Kyle was actually a little frightened of. “You’re gay.”

The retort was instant on his tongue. “I’m _not—_ ”

“I am too.”

That shut him up more effectively than a slap in the face. “W-What? But you just said—”

Craig rolled his eyes, almost as if he was in pain. “I never said I wasn’t,” he deadpanned. “I never lied.”

 _Unlike you_.

Kyle heard the missing words and he grit his teeth. “Why the fuck are you telling me this?”

“Because you asked,” Craig said flatly, and then suddenly Kyle found his face being held by one of Craig’s hands. He stiffened, his breath hitching. “And since I answered you honestly, then it’s only right that you do the same. No bullshit, Broflovski. Are you gay?”

Kyle so desperately wanted to tear himself away from Craig’s grip; he wanted to suddenly be very, very far away from the heat of his body, the intensity of his eyes. He wished he was anywhere but here. But his feet were planted firmly on the ground and he didn’t move out of the other’s light hold; it would have been easy to just step away. But Craig’s eyes trapped him, forced him to stay; the more Kyle looked, the more he realised that his eyes weren’t the grey that he thought they were. There was actually a hint of blue in them, like dark cobalt, and silver too. Craig actually had beautiful eyes.

“Yeah,” Kyle breathed, and the confession fell unbidden from his mouth. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt. “Yeah, I…”

He wasn’t allowed to finish what he was going to say. Craig leaned in and bridged the distance between them, locking their lips in a searing kiss. Kyle’s breath hitched in his throat, his whole body seizing up in shock, but that didn’t seem to be a problem for the other. Craig pressed himself closer, the hand that held Kyle’s face curving so that it held the back of his head instead, his other arm wrapping itself around the redhead’s waist and abruptly pulling him close. The action caused Kyle to gasp and Craig shamelessly took advantage of that, shoving his tongue between his lips and kissing him fiercely.

Kyle’s face burned so hot that he was sure the other must have felt it; he squirmed in his grip, trying to pull away if only to catch his breath. But Craig displayed a fierceness that surprised him and he found himself being pushed backward until his back hit a wall, the hand at the back of his head cushioning the otherwise potentially painful collision to his cranium. In the back of his mind, Kyle thought that was thoughtful.

Kyle also wondered why he hadn’t punched his lights out yet.

“C-Craig…” he managed to gasp out when the other pulled back. Kyle’s lips were swollen and plump, glistening with spit, and he burned under the hungry eyes that stared at them. He put his hands on the other’s shoulders as if that would keep him at bay. “What the hell…”

“Listen, it’s not like we have a lot of options here,” Craig said, his breath hot on Kyle’s cheek. “Who else do you know our age that’s gay?”

“No one,” he answered warily, a frown on his face. He wondered what Tucker was getting at.

Craig bucked his hips forward, causing Kyle to jump and hiss, arousal spiking through his body without his permission. He clutched at Craig’s shoulders tighter. “We have chemistry,” the noirette said, letting out a rare chuckle. Kyle ignored how the low baritone of that laugh caused his spine to tingle. “Do you see where I’m getting at, Broflovski?”

“You want us to be fuck buddies?” Kyle deadpanned; despite the flatness of his tone, his heart was racing.

Craig’s lips twitched into a small smirk. He bent down to nip at Kyle’s bottom lip. If this wasn’t _Craig Tucker_ , Kyle might have thought that he was being playful. “Knew you were a smart kid.”

Kyle scowled and finally found the strength to push Craig off of him. A part of him was aware that he was only able to do so because the other let him. With a blush on his cheeks that was both from arousal and anger, he glared up at grey-blue eyes. “Just because you happen to be gay as well doesn’t mean I’m going to let you fuck me,” he snapped, welcoming the familiar rage that coursed through his veins.

But Craig wasn’t intimidated at all. He just quirked an eyebrow at him, the smirk still playing on his lips. Even though he refrained from actually commenting, Kyle’s face flushed red when he realised what he’d said. He twisted his upper lip and crossed his arms, half defiant, half insecure. “I’m not fucking _easy_ , Tucker.”

“I know you’re not,” the other responded. He shoved his hands into his pockets, the smirk fading from his face. “I’m just offering you a proposition. You don’t need to accept.”

“Damn right I don’t,” Kyle snorted, cruel.

Craig’s expression didn’t change. “But what you _do_ need to accept is that you’re never going to get into Marsh’s pants.”

Kyle’s arms dropped as he balled his hands into fists by his sides. He glared viciously at the other, completely unamused. Craig returned the hateful stare with a calm, nearly bored look of his own.

“Don’t fucking deny it, Broflovski—you’re not fooling anyone.” The noirette shrugged. “Marsh is as straight as a fucking flagpole. It’s actually really fucking sad to see you pining after him like you do.”

“Tucker, I’m fucking _warning you_.”

“I’m not ridiculing you, you idiot,” Craig said, either completely uncaring about Kyle’s temper or having a death wish. “I’m just stating the facts. You need to move on from Marsh because he’s never going to give you the light of day. He’ll be chasing pussy until he dies.”

No matter how much he hated it, he knew that Craig spoke the truth. He grit his teeth, his green eyes sharp and slightly moist. “So, what? I move on from Stan and onto _you_?” The idea was ludicrous when spoken aloud.

Again, Craig shrugged. He pulled out another cigarette from his pockets. “The basic idea, yes,” he acquiesced. He flicked his lighter and lit up the end of the stick. “But I don’t expect you to actually fall in love with me or anything,” he added, expression unreadable. “It’ll just be for fun. Mutual benefit for the both of us who probably won’t get any action otherwise.”

Again that brutal honesty that Kyle couldn’t deny. He unclenched and clenched his hands, looking unsure and conflicted. He searched Craig’s face, looking for _something_ that would help him figure out what his angle was, but as always—he couldn’t read him. All he knew was that Craig wasn’t lying—there was no deceit. Kyle knew that this wasn’t some sort of prank or some game. Well, maybe it was sort of a game, but Kyle was at least aware of it. And just like any game, there had to be rules.

“… Alright,” he said, taking a deep breath. He watched Craig for any reaction and found none. “Alright, we can _try_. But,” he held up a finger, “no fucking strings, got it?”

Craig blew out smoke. “Got it.”

“And no one fucking knows—not even Clyde.”

At that, Craig looked a little irritated. “I’m not fucking dumb, Broflovski.”

Kyle shrugged, nonplussed. “And—” He hesitated, looking at Craig warily. “And you’re _sure_ this—this _thing_ between us will be purely for experimental purposes.” He remembered the drawings in Craig’s notebook. “You’re not actually secretly in love with me or anything.” His heart thudded. If Craig actually _liked_ him, this whole fucking deal was off. Kyle wasn’t heartless.

Craig gave him a strange look as he inhaled from his cigarette. Kyle had to wait the tense few moments as the noirette languidly breathed out, the smoke disappearing into the cold air. “You sound like a fucking geek,” he said bluntly. “No, I’m not in love with you. I just want to fuck you.”

Kyle coloured and he opened his mouth for a scathing retort, but Craig dropped his half-done cigarette to quickly advance him yet again, cutting Kyle’s words short. Before he knew it, he was pressed against the wall again with Craig’s hands on his hips and the smell of tobacco on his breath. “I have a rule too,” the taller said, staring down at him. Kyle’s mouth was dry, his body eager for more touches but tense due to the seriousness of the other’s tone. Craig bent down until their faces were close enough that only a sliver of air was between them; neither dared to close their eyes. “Never fucking imagine me as Marsh.”

The grip on his hips tightened.

“Got it?”

Kyle stared into grey-blue eyes, at their coldness and hidden complexity, and he knew he could never imagine them as Stan’s.

“Got it,” he breathed against the other’s thin lips, and this time it was Kyle who reached up and closed the gap between them in a deal-sealing kiss.

* * *

Contrary to whatever it was that Craig was expecting, there was no fucking involved.

“Why don’t we fuck?”

Kyle blushed and shoved the noirette away from him, threatening to push him overboard. “Because I don’t _want_ to?” he quipped.

Craig managed to catch himself before he fell out of the bed and looked unamusedly at the redhead. “Why not?” he asked bluntly. “You let me finger you—”

“Oh my god.”

“and you enjoy that _a lot_. So. Why don’t we fuck?”

They were in Craig’s room, basking in the afterglow of another healthy session of mutual touching and spit exchange. They’d been doing this for two weeks now, sneaking into each other’s rooms nearly every day so that they could mess around. Their friends (or family) were none the wiser about the antics they got up to, although Kyle swears that Kenny suspects that he’s been fooling around with someone. The blonde was uncannily perceptive sometimes (can smell post-coital bliss, anyway) and even if Craig wouldn’t admit it, he was secretly smug about the fact that _he_ was the one who made the noticeable change in the redhead lately. Kyle hadn’t been sulking as much anymore that was for sure.

As it was, there they were, both covered with dry sweat; Craig wondered if Kyle was going to leave soon. When they started this whole set-up, the redhead always left as soon as possible or kicked Craig out once they were done. Lately though, he’d been staying (or allowing Craig to stay) for a bit longer each time, either indulging in some conversation or just lying there in contentment. They never cuddled though. Craig wouldn’t have minded but the redhead got freaked out whenever he tried. He tried not to take that to heart.

“Just because,” Kyle murmured, resting his cheek on Craig’s pillow. He avoided his eyes, his expression uneasy. “No means no, Craig.”

The noirette watched him. “It’s only a question,” he said. He’d never hurt him like that. He reached out and gently swept a red curl from Kyle’s face. “I’d make you feel good.”

The discomfort on Kyle’s face was apparent—he even looked a little pained—and he twisted himself away from Craig’s touch and sat up. “I should go,” he said.

Craig moved out of his way as Kyle scrambled to get out of the bed. He watched with grey-blue eyes as the redhead hastily put his clothes back on, avoiding his gaze all that time, and muttered a quick goodbye without even looking at him before bolting out of his bedroom door.

Craig flipped him the finger as he left but the redhead probably didn’t see that either.

* * *

There was just _one_ downside to seeing Kyle bounce back up and return to his usual, not-brooding self. He and Stan began to hang out together again, chatting like they used to, and Craig had to witness that across the lunch room table that they all shared.

It only annoyed him before but now—now it was so much worse.

Seeing the redhead minutely blush at every instance of contact, seeing him cast the Marsh kid longing, side-way glances, seeing him laughing and smiling because of a dumb joke that the other made (which, in his opinion, were hardly ever actually funny)—it made Craig’s guts twist like he had them in a vice and with every grin was a vicious tug that threatened to tear him apart.

Kyle was apparently oblivious to his glaring eyes and the not-to-subtle clenching of his fists. He’d always be in a bad mood at lunch, stewing in silence as he tried not launch himself across the table and punch Marsh in the face. But whereas Kyle was oblivious, Kenny McCormick was not. The blonde kept casting him these curious glances, which Craig had returned with a harsh gesture of his favourite finger, and at one point he even _dared_ to scoot closer to his redhead and wrap an arm around his shoulders, whispering something probably filthy in his ear. Kyle had blushed and pushed him away, indignant, and while Kenny laughed his sky-blue eyes were nevertheless watching for Craig’s reaction.

Craig looked like he was about to murder someone. His dark expression was reminiscent of his elementary school days, when he had been much more violence-happy and beat up any kid who pissed him off or even looked at him funny. Kenny’s eyes had widened and he’d immediately backed off, but Craig’s hateful gaze didn’t leave him. It wasn’t until Clyde poked him in the ribs asking for his tub of pudding that Craig finally tore his dark eyes away and the blonde was able to take a sharp intake of breath to replenish his deprived lungs.

Kenny had glanced at Kyle and was surprised to see that the redhead had been staring at Craig too; he must have noticed, then. Kenny had rolled his eyes, thinking that they were both very dumb if they thought that they were being subtle.

* * *

Kyle had begun to notice things about Craig that he hadn’t before.

Like the way he was surprisingly tender when he held him, eyes always searching his face for approval, and only really became rough when Kyle asked for it or when he didn’t notice it himself. He liked to listen to indie music and had Breaking Benjamin more often than not as the last song he’d played on his phone. There were still glowing star stickers up on his ceiling that Kyle noticed one day as they both lied there on his bed in the dark, and then the next day he’d noticed how he had astronaut and space shuttle figurines collecting dust on his shelves alongside his astronomy books. There was an empty guinea pig cage at the corner of his room half-covered in an old towel and when Kyle asked about it, Craig had spoken about Stripe in a tone that Kyle hadn’t thought he was capable of.

Craig was quiet but that didn’t mean he didn’t have opinions, although more often than not he took a very chill stance to everything that Kyle didn’t always agree with but somehow understood was grounding, in a way. He smoked irregularly and he was actually quite stingy with his cigarettes (which made Kyle blush when he remembered how he’d trashed a half-used one in favour of pressing him up against a wall); he was the only kid in school old enough to buy them and he didn’t have much of an allowance. Sometimes, Craig would tell Kyle stories of what the other kids in school were willing to do for him in exchange for a cigarette and Kyle made a joke about Craig being the head of an illegal supply ring. Craig occasionally offered him a free smoke too; Kyle had stoutly denied it the first couple of times but then he’d eventually relented. He ended up hacking, sharply reminded of his elementary school days, and Craig had laughed at him. Then he guided Kyle through his first shotgun experience, which wasn’t that bad at all.

He also owned a pretty decent camera that he’d saved up for last summer that was always meticulously displayed on his study desk. Kyle remembered that Craig was usually the one who would take the pictures during parties or school events and he teased him about being the best photographer in all of South Park as he flicked through the photos. Craig had blushed, then, and the following tumble in bed was very, very gratifying.

As they spent more time together, Kyle was beginning to notice the Craig behind the infamous Craig Tucker. He was still stoic and impassive, but he wasn’t emotionless—and Kyle feared about what would happen if he noticed anything more.

He was barely even thinking about Stan in _that_ way anymore. When he dreamed, it was of blue-grey eyes and a deep, rumbling voice that never failed to make him shiver.

Kyle always left before they got too intimate with each other, when he began to feel those tell-tale signs of comfort and bliss, even though it was becoming harder and harder to leave him. He never let Craig fuck him, never let him get too close, even though some part of him was desperate for it.

He didn’t want to know what would become of them— _him_ —if he were to break one of the rules. Craig made it pretty clear in the beginning—they were fuck buddies, nothing more, and Kyle never wanted to pine for someone again. Especially for someone like _Craig Tucker,_  stoic and dispassionate and his complete opposite.

Then he was reminded that he never had a choice in the matter in the first place.

* * *

They voluntarily paired up together for a history assignment, as that would give them an excuse to hang out with each other after school. It was hard to explain away their absence to their friends, after all.

Craig led the redhead up the stairs of his house, flipping off his sister and mother who greeted him home. Kyle had been sneaking into his room using his window all this time, so that was the first time he came through the front door and actually saw his family. He was secretly amused by the horrified expression on Kyle’s face when he witnessed the unconventional exchange and rolled his eyes at his attempt of a polite greeting. When the redhead finally crossed the threshold to his room, he slammed his door closed loudly, making his guest jump.

“Craig!” Kyle exclaimed, glancing sharply at him in disapproval.

The noirette hid a smile and shrugged nonchalantly, throwing his backpack to the floor. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said in his usual monotone, as if Kyle didn’t already spend every other day in his room. They both heard a shout from downstairs from Craig’s mother. He rolled his eyes and muttered, “Wait here,” as he opened the door again and stepped outside.

Admittedly, he was a little nervous about leaving Kyle alone in his room for the first time, but he brushed the feeling off. When he met with his mother downstairs in the kitchen, she was beginning to work on dinner. “Is that the Broflovski boy?” she asked him.

Craig nodded.

“He’s cute,” Ruby exclaimed from her seat at the kitchen table, grinning toothily.

“You’re thirteen, get over it,” he responded without missing a beat.

His little sister flipped him off. Craig mimicked the action.

“Will he be joining us for dinner?” their mother asked, unaffected by her children’s mini-spat.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, why don’t you ask him? I don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind either,” Ruby affirmed with a snicker.

“Shut up, Rubes. No one cares what you think.”

“Craig,” their mother said sharply. She rolled her eyes and poured some juice into twin glasses. She gave them to her son. “Here, bring these up. And ask him, will you?”

Craig took the glasses and rolled his eyes as well; he didn’t give any verbal agreement and just walked back up the stairs again, ignoring his sister who leered at him as he left. When he awkwardly opened the door to his room, his sharp eyes didn’t miss the way Kyle stiffened and looked up at him far too quickly as he sat there on his bed.

“Jumpy,” Craig said dryly, closing the door with his foot. He noticed that the other was holding something. “What do you have there?”

Kyle had this peculiar look on his face. When Craig approached him, he realised that what he had open was his history notebook. Immediately, his gut began to twist.

“You draw me here too,” the redhead said simply, watching Craig with those bright, green eyes of his.

Craig placed the drinks on his bedside table, his foresight sensing a fight. “What the fuck have I told you about snooping through my stuff?” he asked, and to anyone else his tone was casual—but there was irritation there, an exasperated anger. He narrowed his eyes at the redhead and reached for his notebook.

But Kyle just pulled it out of his reach, a matching glare on his face. “I thought I’d just get an early start on our history assignment and see what you’ve written since last lesson,” he said, voice eerily calm. “Guess what I’d found, Craig.”

The noirette was in no mood for games. He sat on his bed and faced him, expression clearly unamused. He said nothing.

Kyle, sitting cross-legged, opened the book again in his lap and flicked through the pages. Craig watched him silently, the atmosphere between them thick and heavy and he wasn’t quite sure why. Kyle knew he drew him in his English book—maybe the redhead had just assumed that was the _only_ place he drew him? If that was the case, he was in for a nasty surprise. The quietness stretched impossibly long as Kyle studied the pages, a soft frown on his face and his lips pursed together in thought. He looked pensive. Craig didn’t like that expression on his face at this instance, because he was beginning to suspect the redhead was thinking too much. Finally tired of the noise strike, Craig asked flatly, “What are you thinking?”

He glanced down at his notebook. Kyle had it opened to a page from weeks ago. There was a drawing of the redhead, in history class, with a faraway, despondent look in his eyes. He looked miserable and the drawings immediately prior to that were more-or-less the same as well. He knew that the next page, however, would have a drawing of Kyle with fire in his eyes, his face twisted with irritation and anger. He’d intentionally provoked that expression by throwing paper balls relentlessly at the brooding redhead and he remembered being greatly pleased with himself when he managed to snap him out of his depressive funk. He’d enjoyed drawing that picture too, enjoyed flushing out the details of his sharp eyes and curled upper lip. It had been a refreshing change to the downright depressing expressions he’d drawn the days before. Kyle seemed to remember that day—that week—too, because there was a conflict in his eyes that Craig didn’t know what to make of.

“No bullshit, Craig,” the redhead started slowly, and the strange tone of his voice made Craig stiffen with caution. “Do you like me?”

Craig remembered the rules. He assumed that this was a test.

(He remembered the way Kyle would recoil at every unnecessary, gentle touch; he remembered the way he hated seeing his back when he hastily ran away.)

He didn’t want to lose him.

“I suck your dick on a regular basis,” Craig deadpanned. “I have to like you to a certain degree, don’t I?”

He instantly knew he’d made a mistake. Pain flashed across Kyle’s eyes and his jaw locked tight, his lips twitching as he tried not to—scream? Grimace? Cry? Craig was frightened at the reality that he didn’t know what the redhead was thinking.

“We can’t do this anymore,” Kyle suddenly said. His voice trembled.

Something in Craig’s chest cracked. He refused to acknowledge what it was.

“What.”

Kyle tossed his history book to the other side of the bed and started to get up. But before he could, Craig’s hand suddenly whipped out and grabbed him by the wrist, keeping him there on the bed. Kyle glared fiercely at the other, his upper lip curled up in an exaggerated sneer as he spat, “Let me _go_.”

But Craig refused to let go.

“I’m fucking warning you.”

Craig’s eyes flashed. “No.”

“You fucking asked for it!” Kyle snarled, pulling his free hand back to throw angrily at his face. But Craig twisted his upper body to dodge it and instead brought up his other hand to catch his wrist. Kyle struggled to free himself but Craig’s grip was relentless; in response, the redhead growled at him and kicked out, trying to draw his arms away and towards him, but unwittingly pulling Craig closer because the fucker just wouldn’t let go. They wrestled like that for a while, Kyle shouting expletives at the noirette while Craig just tried to pin the redhead down without gaining injuries to his face. In the end, Craig was successful and had Kyle pinned beneath him on the bed, legs on either side of the other’s waist and his wrists trapped on either side of his head. Kyle burned at their position and tried to shove him off, but the bucking of his hips was awkward and instantly made Kyle want to die of embarrassment.

“Get off me, Tucker,” Kyle spat, venomous, his face red.

Craig regarded him coolly, equally out of breath. The look in his eyes made Kyle’s heart pound, just as how seeing the redhead beneath him like this—all flushed and angry—would have made Craig want to do sinful things to him, but he was too busy holding himself together from breaking. “What the fuck are you talking about, Broflovski,” he asked and for once, he hated his own monotone. He wanted to shake the redhead, make him snap out of whatever tantrum he was having, but instead his hands tightly gripped the other’s wrists, no intention of letting go.

“ _Get off_ ,” Kyle demanded again, his head buzzing, not wanting to have this discussion, not wanting to expose himself.

“No.”

Kyle cursed him with every unspeakable word under the sun and Craig had to hand it to the redhead’s vocabulary. Still, Craig didn’t relent, only stared down at the other with that indifferent look on his face. The longer Kyle looked at it, the more he seemed to unhinge, his green eyes glistening with moisture. For a moment, Craig was a little horrified—was he going to cry?

When the redhead ran out of steam and instead of curses his breaths just came out in breathless huffs, Craig demanded calmly, “Just tell me what the fuck you’re thinking.”

The redhead was stubborn to a fault. He just turned his head to the side and refused to answer him.

Craig’s grip tightened minutely. “Does it have something to do with Marsh?”

He’d kill him.

Kyle’s fiery green eyes whipped back to glare at him and he snapped, “No! What the fuck does Stan have to do with anything?”

Or maybe he didn’t have to kill him. His shoulders slightly sagged as some tension drained away from his body. “Then what?” he deadpanned. His eyes never left Kyle’s face.

“I fucking hate you, Tucker.”

Craig knew it was a lie but that didn’t stop the sharp sting in his chest. “… You don’t.”

Kyle’s eyes burned. “Get off me,” he said.

This time, Craig did. He released him and moved off, and Kyle slowly sat up and rubbed at his wrists, casting Craig an irritated glare as he did so. But he didn’t leave the bed.

“Talk, Broflovski.”

Kyle’s eyes averted to his history notebook, looking uneasy and intensely uncomfortable. He continued to rub at his wrists; distraction. “I…” He swallowed. “It’s just—you drawing me is fucking _weird_ , okay?” He suddenly found the strength to meet Craig’s eyes. Challenging. “You’ve been staring at me in classes and I know I should be really, really fucking freaked out by that, but—but I’m not. It’s actually kind of flattering.” He frowned, his lips pursing. “But it’s not, not really. And—And I just can’t— _ignore_ it, you know? You draw me like you actually fucking _care_ about me or something, like you actually _see_ something in me worthwhile to put down on paper, but you just fucking see me as some sort of—of object, right? Whatever you like about this—” he gestured to his face— “is just for aesthetic purposes, right? You don’t fucking care about _me_ , you just like my body, because I’m _gay_ and we ‘won’t get any action otherwise.’ You draw me because, fuck, I don’t know, you’re Craig Tucker and you just _want_ to for some reason, but it’s not like it means anything to you, it’s not like you—”

“Stop,” Craig interrupted. Kyle immediately shut up and just as well, because Craig was _this_ close to throwing a fit. He regarded the redhead with unreadable eyes. “Even if that was the case, why would it bother you? You said you didn’t want any strings attached or what the fuck ever.”

Kyle’s hands clenched at the bedsheets. “That’s—That’s why we can’t do this anymore,” he said, voice strained. He stared at the bed, burning holes into it. “Even though it’s a lie, I’m starting to think you care about me, and—and I…”

Craig felt cold. “And you don’t want that,” he finished simply, not a tremble in his own voice, not anything.

But Kyle shook his head and he took a deep shuddering sigh before he confessed quietly, “And it makes me happy.”

The world stopped moving, just for a moment.

“And I hate myself for feeling happy because you _don’t_ feel that way, I’m just lying to myself, but it’s so fucking hard to remind myself that when you keep fucking _drawing me_ and petting my hair and just—you’re fucking confusing, Craig, you’re not normal and I never know what you’re actually thinking and I—I can’t keep this up, I don’t want to—”

“So you like me,” Craig interrupted again, cutting Kyle’s ramble off in a sharp intake of breath.

Kyle looked at him and his green eyes were bright, glistening, and Craig wanted nothing more than to cross the distance between them and kiss him.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Broflovski.”

Pain, rage, humiliation, something breaking. “Fuck you—”

Craig reached over and grabbed Kyle’s face, kissing him.

The redhead gasped, surprised and shocked, but Craig pulled away before the righteous anger reared its head and threatened to clobber him. He suddenly stood up and began digging in his backpack for something, Kyle watching him in confusion and wariness. He retrieved a book from the bag and sat back down on the edge of the bed, offering it to the redhead. It was a sketchbook. “Here,” he said simply, eyes unmoving from Kyle’s face.

Pale hands with thin fingers reached out to warily take the offered book. With a quick glance of green eyes to convey his confusion, Kyle looked down and opened the sketchbook in his lap. The noirette sat beside him, watching Kyle’s face more-so than the drawings he already knew off by heart. There was a frown on the redhead’s face, his lips pursed in a thin line as he flicked through the pages. Craig exuded an aura of aloofness but inside, his heart was pounding. He wondered if the other could hear it. The further Kyle went through the sketchbook, the more he paused at each page, his expression slowly turning from suspicion to confusion to wary, dangerous hope.

Not all of them were of him, but most were. Craig wondered if Kyle would be freaked out but, watching his face, he saw that wasn’t the case. He didn’t look nauseated or anything; he just looked… astonished. Craig didn’t blame him. The doodles in his notebooks were one thing—it was completely different when he drew Kyle in a proper sketchbook. Whenever he drew Kyle, he always took such care with his pencil strokes, wanting to capture his visage perfectly. He wanted to make sure he drew the shape of his face just right, wanted to carefully scratch into paper each light freckle that kissed his cheekbones; he was fascinated with the curls that peeked out of his hat—it was one of his favourite things to draw of him—and he longed for the day he could draw him without that stupid ushanka. There were so many times Craig wanted to draw him right after one of their sessions, wanted to capture the moment in pencil but couldn’t because Kyle would never have let him. Kyle was… an inspiration to him. He adored the shape of his nose, was enraptured with the texture of his eyes; he was always aptly watching his face for his expressions, of which there were many. One of the great things about Kyle was that he wore his heart on his sleeve; he couldn’t hide his emotions even if he tried. Even when he tried to control himself, Craig was all too familiar with the twitch of his brow, the unfriendly quirk of his lips, the slight baring of his teeth that looked like a smile but actually wasn’t.

Some might say that he was obsessed. Craig thought of it as something else.

Kyle was on the latest page; it was of him looking down at a textbook, concentrating on it, his bottom lip pulled back as he bit it slightly without his knowing. He stared at it for a minute, studied it as Craig studied him. His face was impossibly red, his teeth worrying his lip again unconsciously. When finally Kyle looked up, Craig had moved so close to him that they were barely inches apart. His green eyes were wide, a little disbelieving and a whole lot shocked, looking at him like he’d just read Craig’s love letters rather than seen his sketchbook.

It was the same though, really.

“Please fucking tell me that you draw me because you actually like me,” Kyle blurted, desperate, gaze searching.

Craig answered him by closing the distance between them, capturing Kyle’s lips with his own. The redhead’s breath hitched and Craig just moved closer, sliding up next to him and reaching up to hold the other’s face in his hand. He felt Kyle shake against him, trembling in a way that made Craig’s blood catch on fire, and he opened his mouth to gnaw on the lip that Kyle so often chewed on too. Kyle made a strangled noise that was half a gasp and half a moan, pulling back to try and catch his breath; but Craig didn’t let him and he followed his lips eagerly, pushing Kyle against the wall his bed was pressed up against as he curled a hand into his soft, red curls. The fact that he hadn’t been punched yet gave Craig all the confidence he needed to push his tongue inside the other’s mouth, leaning over the other and forcing Kyle’s head slightly back.

He tasted like mint.

After hungrily devouring the other, hoping that he got his message across, Craig pulled back and stared openly at kiss-swollen lips, secretly delighting in the flush in Kyle’s cheeks and the haze in his emerald-green eyes. He pressed their foreheads together, his hand idly stroking through the other’s hair. “Don’t ever fucking say I don’t care, Broflovski,” Craig warned, keeping eye contact.

“But—”

“If I just saw you as a piece of meat, then why the fuck would I draw you?” Perhaps Craig was revealing more than he should, but he didn’t care right now. “I’d just take your picture and masturbate to that, if that was the case. You think way too much, and yet you can be such an idiot.”

Kyle’s face coloured more due to the insult and to his blasé words. “So you liked me all along,” Kyle challenged instead, wanting to see _him_ squirm.

Craig didn’t give him the satisfaction. He just pulled back and shrugged, saying nothing, because it was already fucking obvious, wasn’t it.

Kyle rubbed at his warm face, narrowing his eyes. “You lied to me!” he accused, referring back to the very beginning when they set out their rules.

The other rolled his eyes, somehow knowing exactly what he was talking about and actually finding amusement in the way Kyle had issue with it in the first place. “I wasn’t in love with you,” he said flatly. “But whatever. You wouldn’t have let me in your pants if I didn’t. You would have pussied out.”

“To protect your dumb ass from getting hurt!”

“Do I look hurt to you, Broflovski?” Craig asked, quirking an eyebrow.

There were times that Kyle thought he was. He decided not to voice that.

“Then what now?” Kyle asked, grunting. The blush was still on his cheeks. “If, um, if you like me, and I like you—”

Hearing those words, Craig was so happy.

“then… what does that make us?” Kyle finished, feeling warm all over and antsy.

Craig’s expression gave nothing away. “What do you think, smartass?”

Kyle pursed his lips, looked down. “I… I don’t want this to stop.”

“Then it won’t.”

“And I… I want to know for sure that you feel the same way—that I’m not alone in this, that it’s not some fucked up one-sided thing.”

Craig shifted on his spot on the bed. He looked away too. “… It’s not.”

Kyle crawled towards him, touched his face. “Then say it,” he asked, green eyes imploring. “Please.”

Craig took a breath and looked at him, saw the insecurity and desperation in those eyes he adored.

Craig didn’t consider himself very normal. He observed how other people were and he knew he wasn’t like them. He couldn’t be bothered to fake a smile just to please others, didn’t care about stupid social structures or power hierarchies. He did what he wanted, that was it—and he didn’t want many things in the first place. He was aware that he made people uncomfortable but he just didn’t give a fuck about that; the circle of people he actually did give a fuck about was very, very small, and even then he was constantly flipping them off. He had trouble expressing his emotions—when he had them—because in a dysfunctional family where his parents didn’t love each other and no one really expressed anything other than bitterness, he hadn’t really learned how to do so properly. But even though he lacked any acceptable social skills, he knew how to read people. Most of the times, he just didn’t care to, but he could read and recognise emotions—and he was especially attuned to Kyle’s. He rather prided himself in knowing what the hothead was feeling and what he was thinking; he’d observed him for long enough to recognise each facial expression. Craig wasn’t dumb though—he knew there were sides to Kyle he never had the privilege to see. But at this moment, Craig knew what Kyle wanted—no, _needed_ —and it was only because of that that he had the courage to say anything at all.

“I… like you,” he ground out, the words so difficult to force out of his throat.

With how strained the words were and how pinched his face was, anyone else might have assumed that he was lying through his teeth.

But not Kyle.

He _beamed_ at him, a smile stretching wide on his face and his eyes practically _sparkling_ , and for a moment, Craig was jolted. He thought of how Kyle would never hear those words from the guy he liked first and how it would have torn him up if he never heard those words from the guy he liked second too. He thought about how, if Craig had his way, _no one_ would ever tell Kyle those same words, and the redhead would be stuck with his shitty confession for life. It baffled him that he was content with such a dismal delivery—when he knew he deserved _so much more_ —and Craig surged forward to kiss him again, wanting to make him see the truth because such a stupid ‘I like you’ _was_ a lie; what Craig felt was nothing so blasé, nothing so simple. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to properly express it in words for the guy who spoke out rhetoric so intricately with his sharp and clever tongue.

He hoped he never needed to.

Kyle dug his fingers into his hair and Craig pushed him down onto the bed, never breaking contact. They kissed each other like they’d done countless times before and yet, at the same time, like it was their first. Craig was hungry and Kyle was hungry too; they wanted to suddenly consume each other, monopolise their sole affections, and resolved to claim it like a dragon would hoard gold. Craig was possessive, Kyle was greedy—their selfishness worked itself out between them.

They only broke away when they heard a knock on Craig’s door and the shrilly voice of his little sister shouting, “Dinner’s ready!”

Craig pulled back, breathless and out of focus as he stared down at the equally messed up redhead. “Dinner?” he asked.

Kyle slowly shook his head. “Would it be terribly rude if I said I didn’t want your family seeing me like this?” His face was crimson.

Craig felt a bubble in his chest, warm and spreading. He smiled and leaned down.

“Fuck them.”

* * *

A few weeks later, Craig showed him some of his prized photographs that he’d entered into independent competitions and won. Kyle eventually realised that while drawing was his hobby, the camera was his passion and he wanted to go into film one day. As Craig showed him his pictures, Kyle was awed by the beauty of them, the subtle, secret, breathtaking nuances. While Craig never bragged to anyone else, he was proud to show them off to Kyle and the redhead listened aptly, praising him and feeling happy. He was always pleasantly surprised when he was confronted with Craig's artistic side; he would never have suspected it existed in someone so outwardly bland and he doubted many other people were aware of it either. It made him feel special, that the stoic man was so willing to share this secret side of him, to show him the passions that he hid so well from the world. It shocked him further when, despite all the professional pictures he’d taken, he showed Kyle one that he said was his favourite—and Kyle’s face burned when he realised it was a picture of _him_.

It wasn’t as spectacular as the others, not by a longshot. It was candid even, taken by a simple camera Kyle suspected he didn’t use anymore. But it was him, from a few years ago—caught laughing freely at a joke that he didn’t remember.

Craig wasn’t a romantic, not by a long shot. When he tried to be, it was awkward and rendered Kyle helpless as he succumbed to giggling fits—it was hard not to laugh when Craig delivered cheesy lines with that eternal deadpan of his. Consequently, it pissed the other off enough that he was reluctant to try again.

He wasn’t romantic, but he was uncannily sweet.

It made Kyle want to kiss him, so he did.

After a while, Craig suddenly asked if he could draw him. He said he’d always wanted to draw Kyle when he was like this—all fucked out and rosy-cheeked and with his hair a wild halo around his head as he lay there on his pillow.

Kyle had responded by blushing and laughing and fluttering his eyelashes, quipping, “Yes, Craig—draw me like one of your French girls.”

Craig had flipped him the finger and attacked him again, and much later on when Craig took out his camera, Kyle didn’t protest and smiled dreamily into the lens.

It was Craig’s new favourite picture.

* * *

Kyle watched Craig quietly as the other drew him. He always liked to see him when he was working. Even though his facial expression didn't change much, there was just enough difference to make it endearing. Slightly narrowed eyes, thinned lips, a cute furrow of his eyebrows (although Craig wouldn't appreciate being called cute)—Kyle noticed these things and had to resist poking his cheeks every time.

He asked him why he always drew him, wanting to trick him into confessing the words again.

But Craig had simply said, "Art is never finished; only abandoned."

He suspected he got that off a fridge magnet and Craig had chuckled. 

Nevertheless, Kyle hoped Craig would never stop wanting to capture him.

* * *

They were beneath the sheets. Their legs were tangled up in each other’s and one of the noirette’s arms was wrapped around the redhead’s waist, holding him close. Kyle had his head on the other’s chest, his ear pressed against his heart.

Despite Craig’s outward demeanour of calm, his heartbeat was fast.

“I like you,” Kyle murmured, arms embracing the other and not moving an inch.

Craig didn’t answer for a moment, and when he did, it was a simple, monotone “Whatever.”

But his heartbeat had quickened and the arm around him pulled him even closer.

Kyle smiled, feeling privileged. 

 


End file.
